


The Pelican Bet

by elzed



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25378327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzed/pseuds/elzed
Summary: More BSG RPF dredged from the depth of the past (2008!) and brought into the AO3 light, for old times' sake.
Relationships: Jamie Bamber/Katee Sackhoff
Kudos: 4





	The Pelican Bet

Unbetaed 

Prompt: RPF: Jamie Bamber/Katee Sackhoff, magnet

_Guess where I am right now?_

The text message flashes on his screen, Katee’s number coming up, and Jamie stares at it perplexed for a couple of minutes before typing his answer.

_Give me a clue._

The phone vibrates again, almost immediately.

_Soldiers, furry hats, tourists._

What the hell? She can’t be.

_You’re here?_

_You can do better than that._

Jamie looks at his watch, tries to remember weekend morning expeditions when he was a kid, figures it’s about the right time.

_Changing of the guard?_

This time the phone rings and it’s her, laughing into his ear. He can hear the barked commands in the background, and the hubbub of a crowd around her. 

“Surprise!” she says, and he suddenly feels irrationally happy. He’s missed her more than he cares to think, even if they’ve crossed paths a few times since the series finale wrapped.

“What on earth are you doing in London?” 

“On my way back from Berlin – that con I was hoping to see you at but apparently you were too busy filming your new show.”

He smiles ruefully. “You know what that shit’s like. So have you got time to meet for a drink?” 

“Have _you_?”

“For you, Katee, anytime. Actually, how are you fixed for lunch?”

They meet in St James Park – Jamie’s favourite, and not just because it’s his namesake – where the flowerbeds are a riot of colours and the first autumn leaves are beginning to fall. Katee’s walking along the lake towards him as he waits on the bridge; he spots her familiar silhouette from a distance, plain white dress showing off her light tan, her hair a golden halo in the sunlight, and it makes his breath catch. Somehow it’s so incongruous seeing her here, in _his_ town, for once, that he feels curiously defenceless.

It’s her first visit to London, so he teases her mercilessly about which museums she intends to visit. She reluctantly agrees to Tate Modern, point blank refuses to consider the National Gallery.

“Come on, Bamber, I’m only here for three days,” she huffs, and he gives up. 

They lunch on grilled salmon at the park restaurant, and he wins a bet with her about pelicans on the lake, so she’s forced to buy them both ice creams as they walk towards Horseguard’s Parade. 

“You should read your guidebook, Sackhoff,” he tells her, but one look at her mouth wrapped around the multicoloured ice lolly she picked and he just knows she lost on purpose, because there is no way she’s doing this accidentally. He closes his eyes and summons Kerry’s face, thinks of the girls, but he’s already half-hard and the mantras that worked in L.A. and Vancouver obviously don’t translate to London. Maybe it doesn’t work when his family is an ocean away, the ties that bind stretched so thin they’re barely there.

Come to think of it, the last time he got into trouble with Katee, Kerry was also an ocean and a continent away, so he should have seen it coming. Five years of playing soulmates and lovelorn comrades, five years of trading burning glances and occasional torrid embraces on camera, and flirting shamelessly off set takes its toll even on the most uxorious of husbands. 

“Penny for your thoughts,” she says, and he laughs unconvincingly.

They take a walking tour of the sights, up and down Whitehall, from Nelson’s Column to Big Ben, a quick peek in Westminster Abbey, a stroll along the Thames, until an unexpected shower ushers them into the tube for shelter, and he finds himself offering a late afternoon drink at his, against his better judgment.

They stop at the off-licence on the way to his old bachelor pad in Shepherd’s Bush, too cramped now when the family comes visiting, so he mainly uses it when he’s on his own. If he were so inclined, it would be the perfect fuckpad. _If_ he were so inclined; which he isn’t, of course, because he loves his wife and daughters and doesn’t cheat on them. 

Never has, really. One off-screen kiss doesn’t count, not even a passionate, up against the wall, sloppy, breathless kiss that left him so keyed up he had to stop and wank on the way home. He knows she knows he’s thinking about that kiss now; about that erotically-charged memory that has fuelled a good proportion of his rich and varied masturbatory life, the collateral of the (faithful) married actor who spends half his life on location.

Why the hell he had to get a job in London after finally moving to L.A. – and God knows he hates L.A. – he doesn’t know, but this, Katee in his flat, demurely perched on his old couch while he opens a bottle of claret, _this_ he didn’t expect. The problem is, he rather likes it, the thrum of illicit excitement, the blood pounding through his veins as he imagines various scenarios, the knowledge that if he were to make a move, she probably wouldn’t say no. Probably. Then again, she’s most likely counting on him to keep to the straight and narrow, because he is that kind of guy. Most of the time. 

Except that Katee’s the magnet that fucks up his moral compass, so when he pours her a glass, leaning over her on the couch, and looks into her eyes, he feels something give and he very deliberately puts the bottle back on the table and braces one arm either side of her head before kissing her, slowly this time. 

She tastes even better than he remembers, her lips parting eagerly, her tongue snaking around his, her whole body arching towards him as the kiss deepens and hands come into play. Her fingers are light on his back, tracing his spine, brushing along his shoulders, and they leave tingles in their wake. 

Jamie climbs clumsily on the couch, knees bracketing her waist before she pulls him down over her and he gives in to the craving and presses himself fully against her soft luscious curves, his aching erection seeking the warmth between her legs. 

“God, Jamie,” she moans, “Oh, Jamie, please…” 

He reads this – correctly, as it turns out – as an invitation to undo her shirtdress and slip his hands inside, caressing her gorgeous breasts through the cobweb-thin lace of her bra. Her nipples peak, stiff and inviting, and he dips his head to them, latching on with relish, because he’s wanted this for longer than he can remember. She sighs with contentment, stretches like a cat under him, offering herself up to him irresistibly.

Button after button he works his way down her body, emboldened by her enthusiastic reception, until the dress falls open and he’s panting at the crux of her thighs, a mere scrap of lace between her and his tongue. Hot breath on her flesh, thighs parting and he’s pulling the knickers off in one fell swoop, Katee’s surrender complete.

Her orgasm comes like a vindication, five years’ worth of frustration and want reduced to a single moment when she arches and throbs under his mouth, and Jamie feels on top of the world. Then it’s time for him to submit to her mouth, her fingers, her eagerness as she works him to full arousal and beyond, one hand down his pants, teasing his cock until it’s painfully hard, the other stroking his balls, and oh _Christ_ he’s close to coming. 

It’s when she shifts and spreads her legs, pulls him down to her and the head of his cock brushes against her clit, making her gasp, that Jamie realises what’s about to happen, and suddenly the guilt comes crashing about him.

“I can’t, I can’t, please, fuck, Katee, we can’t”, he whispers, and he knows it’s pathetic, but he can’t fuck her without breaching the last of his boundaries, even if it’s an absurd artificial construct, and one that Kerry wouldn’t be fooled about for a second. 

Whatever – he doesn’t want to be another notch on Katee’s bedpost, or vice versa, hopes that if they keep just shy of actual intercourse (yeah, he sounds just like Bill Clinton there) he can pretend it’s still within the same universe of that kiss they shared years ago. 

Katee gets the message and slides down his body, kissing her way down his chest and belly until her mouth makes contact with his cock and he lets himself go between her lips. He’s caught up in the intensity of it all, close, so close that it just takes a few thrusts before he comes with a shout down her throat and fuck, he hasn’t had an orgasm that powerful since he was a teenager.

He’s conscious that he’s held on to a wafer-thin edge of self-control and that he’s congratulating himself on an utterly meaningless degree of restraint, but beggars can’t be choosers, so when Katee tells him she has to split because she’s meeting someone for dinner he doesn’t complain. 

Her dress is back on, wrinkles smoothed out as best she can with her hands, mussed hair brushed and lipstick reapplied, looking like a woman who’s had a normal lunch date with an ex-colleague. Jamie’s still sprawled on the couch, doing a pretty good impression of a debauched adulterous husband, as far as he can tell. 

They exchange a brief, almost chaste kiss and just as she’s about to walk out she stops and turns, clears her throat.

“I asked Scott to marry me yesterday,” she says, and while he’s still processing it she steps through his front door and closes it quietly.

And he thinks, stupidly, about life imitating art, and how he’s really a lot more like Lee Adama than he’s ever let on, even after all these years.


End file.
